that they . . .”
The pair disappeared into the front parlor. Judith
glanced at the bay window. The ladder remained;
water still poured down the side of the house. Judith
couldn’t have felt worse if she’d suffered a physical
blow.
“What did you mean,” Joe inquired, “when you said
there was only one woman?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Judith noticed the guests leaving
their breakfast table. “My,” she said in sarcasm, “I’m
glad we didn’t spoil their appetites.”
Joe gave her a quick hug. “Hang in there. It’s going
on ten. I’ll head out now to see Fred Sheets at the insurance agency.”
Judith said something that sounded like “Mrph.”
A moment later Dilys stuck her head back into the
living room. “I’m going to confer with my backup.
They seem to have gotten lost.” She winked. “At
Moonbeam’s.”
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Mary Daheim
“Great,” Judith said through gritted teeth, then threw
her hands up in the air. “Mother! I’d better tell her what
happened. She must be frantic.”
Gertrude, however, was in her usual place, leafing
through a film directory. “Hi, Toots,” she said, barely
looking up. “Abbott or Costello or whatever his last
name is brought this to me. It’s got all the directors and
actors and moving-picture people listed. It’s too bad
Joan Crawford’s dead. People used to say she looked
like me.”
“Mother . . .” Judith began.
But Gertrude interrupted. “Anyways, Dade—yes,
Dade, I remember his first name now—left me his card
and one from some woman named Fleming. She’s supposed to call me when she gets back to Los Angeles.”
The old lady pronounced it “Los Ang-elees.” “Boy,
there sure are a lot of names in this book.” She tapped
the cover. “I never heard of most of them.” Finally,
Gertrude looked at her daughter. “Where’s lunch?”
“It’s ten o’clock,” Judith said, then pointed to the
breakfast tray. “You didn’t eat all your eggs.”
“They have funny stuff in them,” Gertrude said.
“What did you do, mix the eggs with an old salad?”
Judith refrained from saying that Joe had made the
eggs. She also refrained from telling her mother about
the fire. As long as Gertrude’s deafness had obscured
the sirens, there was no point in upsetting the old girl.
At least not yet. Judith had other things on her mind.
Back in the house, the guests were scurrying about,
completing their packing, hauling their luggage downstairs. They seemed as eager to leave as Judith was to
see them go.
“Incredible,” Ben Carmody said to Judith as he put
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325
on a black leather jacket. “How did Win set fire to her
room?”
Looking guileless, Judith shrugged. “Who knows?
Does she smoke?”
“Hell, no,” Dirk declared. “She’s no drinker, either,
at least not at nine in the morning.”
Judith kept mum.
“She’ll be fine,” Ellie said, hooking her arm through
Ben’s. “I’d like to work with her on All the Way to
Utah.”
“Win’s spunky,” Chips said. “Maybe she’ll be able
to leave for L.A. later today.”
Again, Judith made no comment.
Vito slipped a white envelope into her hand. “The
studio wants to compensate you for your trouble. This
is a promissory note for five thousand dollars. As soon
as everything is cleared up in L.A., you’ll get your
money.”
Judith’s smile was off center. “Why . . . that’s generous. I think.” For all she knew, the money would
cover only the caterers. Of course it was better than a
subpoena.
Dade was the last one out the door. He was halfway
down the steps when he stopped and turned around.
“Tell your momma I’ll be in touch. I’m pretty excited
about this project.”
Judith still couldn’t believe Dade was serious. “You
“I sure am,” he responded. “That little lady has
some mighty swell tales to tell. I like her style.” With
a salute, Dade ambled along after the rest of the party.
The limos had barely pulled away when Judith
heard a knock at the back door. Maybe it was Renie,
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Mary Daheim
though she rarely got up until ten o’clock, and even
then, it took her another hour to become fully conscious.
It wasn’t her cousin who’d come to call. It was an
even more unlikely person to show up so early in the
day.
“Goodness!” Vivian Flynn exclaimed. “You’ve had
more excitement, I see. Those sirens woke me up. I
only managed to get dressed about five minutes ago,
and then I saw the limos in the cul-de-sac. What’s
going on now?”
“One of the guests had an accident,” Judith replied,
leading Herself into the kitchen. “A small fire upstairs.
She’ll be okay, I think. Would you care for coffee?”
The offer came with a tug of reluctance.
Vivian, however, waved a hand. “No, but thanks
anyway. As long as I’m dressed”—she ran a hand over
her ensemble, which consisted of a black wool suit
with slits in the skirt, a frilly white blouse, sling-back
stiletto heels, and a perky black beret adorned with
faux pearls—“I think I’ll pop over to Norway General
to see Stone Cold Sam.”
“I hear he’s doing well,” Judith said.
“He’s doing wonderfully,” Herself declared, then
giggled behind her hand. “But I feel sooo guilty!”
“About what?”
Vivian giggled again, then made a face. “About the
heart attack. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were doing anything really outrageous.”
Judith’s mouth was agape. “You mean . . . ? Stone
Cold Sam was . . . ah . . . with you when he had the
heart attack?”
Vivian’s false eyelashes fluttered. “With me. Yes.”
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327
“Oh.” Judith gulped. “I see.”
“You’d better not!” Herself said, wagging a finger.
“Naughty of you to peek!” She giggled some more.
“That’s why I feel guilty. I went to see him last night,
and I was so upset I ended up on the wrong floor. I almost panicked when the room I thought was his turned
out to be empty. I was afraid he’d passed away. I practically ran all the way to the elevator. I thought he was
in 706, but it was 906. Silly me.”
An alarm bell went off in Judith’s brain. She stared
at Herself until the other woman stared back with a
puzzled expression.
“What’s wrong, Judith?” Vivian inquired. “You look
like you don’t feel well. I’ve noticed that you haven’t
really looked very good since your surgery. Did it age
you terribly?”
Judith was accustomed to Herself’s barbs, but on
this occasion, t
hey were the least of her worries. “No,”
she said tersely. “I’m just tired. It’s been a difficult
weekend.”
“So it seems.” Vivian reached into her cobra-skin
handbag to retrieve a pair of black kid gloves. “I must
be off. I’ll give Sam your best. By the way, I hope that
nothing was badly burned. Except for those handsome
firefighters on the roof, everything looks fine from outside.”
“It’s not too bad,” Judith said, hoping the statement
might be true.
“Good,” Herself responded. “Toodles.” She departed through the front door on a wave of decadence
and a whiff of Chanel No. 5.
For at least a full minute, Judith stood in the hallway, thinking hard. She had been certain that the per- 328
Mary Daheim
son wearing high heels at Norway General was Winifred,
coming to see Angela. She had ruled out Eugenia, who
always wore sensible shoes, and Ellie, who preferred
sandals and sneakers. The idea that Winifred had wanted
to ensure Angela’s silence concerning the source of
Bruno’s cocaine addiction was out the window.
She considered going upstairs to see what was happening on the guest floor. But she didn’t really want to
know. Besides, she was leery of overdoing it with her
hip. The first order of business was almost as painful
as the fire itself: She had to call Ingrid Heffelman to
change the current set of reservations.
With a heavy sigh, Judith looked at the calendar on
the wall above the computer. She hadn’t flipped the
page to November. Saying good-bye to Sculptor’s Stu-
dio, she stared at the new painting. It was Grant
Wood’s American Gothic. Born 1892 in Anamosa,
Iowa, the tag line read, he taught in the Cedar Rapids
public schools and later was an artist in residence at
the University of Iowa. Wood was strongly influenced
by German and Flemish painters of the . . .
Judith’s brain was going into overdrive, but was
short-circuited by the voice of Battalion Chief
Ramirez, who was calling from the entry hall.
“Everything’s under control,” he said, pulling off his
heavy gloves. “We’ll come by later today to check
things out and see what help we can offer once your
husband has finished talking to your insurance agent.”
Judith thanked the firefighter, then waited on the
porch until the hoses were rolled up and the fire truck
drove away. A small white sedan was pulled up to the
curb by the Rankerses’ driveway. Something about the
vehicle chafed at her memory, but she shrugged it
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329
away. Small white cars were as common as the autumn
fog. My brain’s in a fog, she thought. Rarely had she
felt so low in her mind.
As the firefighters disappeared out of the cul-de-sac,
Judith heard a sound just off the porch on the other side
of the Weigela bush. Walking down the steps, she
turned the corner and peered through the fog.
A gray-clad figure appeared like a wraith out of the
mists. Judith stood very still, her heart in her mouth.
Then, as the figure came closer, recognition dawned.
“Mrs. Izard!” Judith exclaimed. “What are you
doing here?”
Meg Izard clutched at her imitation-leather purse
with one hand and held the felt picture-frame hat in
place with the other. “Just passing by on our way out
of town,” she said, her usually cold gaze showing a
spark of life. “I didn’t think anybody was home. Walt
and I saw somebody leave the house. We thought it
was you. What’s going on with the firemen?”
“A small fire,” Judith replied. “Guests are sometimes heedless.”
“I’ll bet,” Meg said, looking away toward the
Weigela.
Judith retreated to the bottom of the porch steps.
“Despite the problems we had with your reservation,
do you plan on staying at Hillside Manor when you
visit again?”
“We’ll see about that,” Meg replied with a scowl.
“The weather here’s dismal.”
“September is lovely,” Judith said. “So is early October.”
“September’s no good,” Meg said, adjusting the
round felt hat before her hands tightened again on her
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Mary Daheim
purse. “We never miss the state fair.” She started to
move past Judith on the walk.
“Where’s Mr. Izard?” Judith asked, a hand on Meg’s
arm.
“He’s wandering around, having a smoke,” Meg
replied. “You can’t smoke in these rental cars, you
know.”
“We permit smoking,” Judith said. “Why don’t you
come in for a few minutes? The fog’s supposed to lift
soon. Then driving will be safer, especially in an unfamiliar city.”
“Well . . .” Meg flexed her fingers on the black
purse. “I’ll come in for a bit. Never mind Walt. He’s
happy just moseying around outside.”
Judith led the way into the house. “Have a seat at the
dining-room table,” she offered.
But Meg went straight into the kitchen, where she
fumbled with her purse.
“Would you prefer sitting in here?” Judith inquired.
“No. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.” She
stood by the sink, looking down. After almost a full
minute, she turned and followed Judith into the dining
room. Meg sat down with her purse in her lap and her
shabby gray coat unbuttoned. “I take cream,” she announced.
“Fine,” Judith said, going back into the kitchen. She
fixed Meg’s coffee and poured a glass of orange juice
for herself. “Are you headed for the airport?” she inquired when she was seated at the big oak table.
Meg nodded. “We got a flight out at two. If the fog
lifts.”
“It should,” Judith said. “So you always attend the
Iowa State Fair,” she remarked in a casual tone.
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331
“Haven’t missed it since I was two,” Meg answered
with a hint of pride. “Best fair in the Midwest.”
“Do you and Walt own a farm?” Judith asked.
“A small one, just outside Riceville.” The corners
of Meg’s thin mouth turned down. “Walt’s dad sold
out to one of those combines years ago. They cheated
Mr. Izard. Now we’ve only got some chickens, a couple of cows, and a cornfield. It’s been a struggle, believe me.”
“Farming certainly has changed,” Judith remarked.
“But you must do okay. I mean, you and Walt are able
to take vacations like this one.”
“First time since our honeymoon,” Meg said, with
her usual sour expression. “We wouldn’t have done it
now except it’s our silver wedding anniversary. That,
and with—” She stopped abruptly, her thin shoulders
tensing under the worn wool coat.
Recalling Walt Izard’s gaunt frame, Judith gently
posed a question. “Is your husband ill?”
Meg scowled at Judith. “No. Why do you ask? It’s
none of your beeswax.”
“That’s true,” Judith admitted. “I’m sorry. It’s just
that I’m interested in people. Sometimes it gets me
into awkward situations.”
Meg’s face softened slightly. “Well . . . you can’t do
much about serious sickness. Trouble is, the doctors
can’t either. Folks like us can’t afford big-city specialists like some.”
“Maybe not,” Judith responded, then paused before
speaking again. “Shall I tell you a story?”
“A story?” Meg wrinkled her long nose. “Why do I
want to hear a story?” But a flicker of interest kindled
in her eyes.
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Mary Daheim
“You’ll want to hear this story,” Judith said, placing
her elbows on the table and leaning closer to her guest.
“It’s about a young girl from a small town in Iowa who
fell in love with a romantic young man.”
Meg tensed, her hands tightening on the purse in her
lap. But she said nothing. In Judith’s mind’s eye, she
tried to picture the thin, haggard woman across the
table as a young girl—the girl in the photograph that
lay between the pages of The Gasman.
“This young man had a vivid imagination,” Judith
continued, “and he wooed her with all the passion of
his creative nature. Unfortunately, the girl got pregnant. Her family insisted on a wedding. Since the
young man had roots in the area, he gave in, and they
were married. His bride made the mistake of believing
he’d keep his vows. She trusted him, even if she
thought his ambitions were out of reach. She couldn’t
understand why farm life in Iowa didn’t suit him. But
he had bigger dreams, and moved on, leaving her behind.” Judith paused, recalling the lock of hair. She
looked Meg right in the eye. “What happened to that
baby, Mrs. Izard?”
Meg sat stony-faced for a long moment. When she
finally spoke, her lips scarcely moved. “He was stillborn. My so-called husband had already left me. I
named the poor baby Douglas, after my father. We
buried him next to Pa in the family plot.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said softly. “Do you have other
children?”
Meg shook her head. “I couldn’t. Something went
wrong at the time of the birth.”
Now it was Judith’s turn to be silent. The fog
seemed to permeate the kitchen, like a sad, gray pall.
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333
“Your first husband took something else besides your